


A Mutt, Her Hound, and Their Lady

by kingcaboodle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Love at First Sight, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Trans Warden (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: Everything happens for a reason, or so they say. But who decided things would happen like this? A Witch of the Wilds thrown by the light.





	1. Frenzied

A spark of light in the darkness of the Korcari Wilds, and she finds herself overwhelmed with the curious thoughts of a girl far too young and foolish to know any better. Her heart stammers in her chest, a rapid pattern long since forgotten in favor of a steadier head. She stands at the stove, absently stirring the stew in front of her, the heat of the fire only just concealing the flush running high on her dark cheeks. 

“You’re quiet tonight, girl.” Flemeth speaks, her voice a knowing purr from the other side of the room. “What could it be, I wonder, that’s quelled that fiery tongue of yours. Hm,” she hums expectantly. “Could it be a sign of the Blight? Or,” Morrigan turns to find her mother staring at her with a familiar look. Something glitters behind the old woman’s eyes, something predatory. “Could you be plotting something?” She asks, her tongue dripping with a venom that suggests she is already concrete in her assumptions. 

Morrigan wishes she was plotting something. She wishes she was plotting, or scheming, or one of the other nasty things her mother continuously suspected her of doing. Anything would have felt better compared to the horribly simple sense of confusion that had befallen her from the moment she left their guests at the gate to the encampment. 

Instead she finds herself thinking, dreading – worst of all – mooning over the day’s events. 

No one could have accused her of being completely indifferent to the world that existed beyond her Wilds. Her childhood had revolved around Flemeth and her stories, around the creatures of the forest and the stories they had to tell. Yet the world beyond the hut was fascinating, and this morbid curiosity had endured the harshest of lessons taught by both Flemeth and the world she so vehemently hid from. Each failed endeavor out into the world had spawned six expeditions in its wake, giving her an opportunity to cloak herself in foreign customs or observe them from afar. 

The Wilds, however, did not always serve their role as barrier between her world and the next. Ever since her childhood, she had enjoyed nothing more than padding through the forest, the earth cool under her feet, watching countless groups of foolhardy men trample the grass and slaughter every beast in their paths. This was a hobby that had followed her into adulthood, one that she could safely say she had improved in over time. Yet perhaps it was the sight of a capable warrior at the head of the party that had driven her from her shadows. Or perhaps 

“Careful,” a boy hiding behind a shield and a snarl. “She looks Chasind.” 

Her spine straight as the staff in her hand, proud and stubborn as the day she was born. The very fibers of her resolve unraveled with a single sentence. 

“I think she looks beautiful.”

No one had ever looked at her like that. For a moment Morrigan had felt as beautiful as the jeweled mirror smashed upon the ground so many years ago. She had expected the hateful stares, the frightened whispers declaring her a “Witch of the Wilds.” She had grown accustomed to all these things and more, a persistent reminder that for all her observations she still did not belong. 

But she had not expected kindness. 

She could not have guess that those plump lips would slip so easily into a smile encrusted in gemstones. “Name’s Lux,” a voice the color of molten honey. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

She feels it ghost over her, the echo ringing in her ears and sending shivers along her skin. 

Morrigan had expected to find many things in the Wilds. She had spoken with the trees, run with the wolves, and followed those who intruded without detection. She had been prepared for anything, lessons in manipulation held close to her chest in the event of an emergency. But something had changed, something subtle shifting in the air of an upcoming battle. At the edge of the Blight, deep within the heart of the Wilds, Morrigan feels the upset. Her fate stirred up by a Warden and her party.


	2. Acid Rain

She had never thought it possible to hate the rain.

 

As a girl she had relished in it – standing with arms outstretched, her face turned towards the clouds like the thirstiest of weeds.

 

_“I think you’re more like a flower.” Her voice soft, lost among the raindrops bouncing off the roof of Morrigan’s tent. Lux, her hair damp from dancing in the rain; black waves spilling over Morrigan’s chest like the most soothing of blankets. One calloused finger tracing the outline of her lips. “Please don’t call yourself a weed. You can still be a poisonous  flower if you want.”_

 

Her hand rests on her stomach, the new life slumbering beneath her breast fluttering at her touch. It is rare that she allows herself to think of those nights, her body weary from a day of traversing the countryside, her Warden eager to help any and all tortured souls they happened to come across. _But that was something I loved about her, was it not? That foolish, do-good nature._  

 

She had been foolish too, she supposes. To think that someone like her could’ve been suited for a happy ending, to be whisked off her feet by a dashing hero eager to claim her victory. She hadn’t even been brave enough to stick around following the fall of the Archdemon, the light emitting from the tower roof giving her the cover necessary to flee. Perhaps she is a coward. A selfish opportunist, the kind that Flemeth had raised her to be. That was the only explanation for not staying. The fear that she might’ve seen Lux there, broken and battered from the battle too overwhelming. That all her work might’ve been voided in the face of simplistic impulses of love.

 

But it was not her nature to be nurturing. Why she had pretended so long to be something else, it was beyond her.

 

And yet –

 

 _“What is that? What_ is _that?” Brosca stands with her wide-eyes cast towards the skies, her arms outstretched as though she might be trying to pull down the clouds themselves. “Is this normal? Should we do something?”_

_Morrigan is tired, her legs unused to such long, grueling treks. “Tis just_ rain _, Warden.” Her heart lurches in her chest when the Dwarf’s eyes snap to hers. “We have no time to marvel, should we plan on reaching Lothering by nightfall.”_

_“She’s never seen rain before,” the Fool, Alistair, speaks from her side. “They don’t get a lot of it in Orzammar.”_

_His tone is almost pitying, the sound of it making her feel all the more like an interloper. For a moment – and not the first time of the day – Morrigan feels the hot burn of embarrassment on her cheeks, and the bitter taste of resentment in the back of her throat. Whatever Flemeth was hoping to gain by forcing Morrigan along where she obviously didn’t belong, it certainly couldn’t be worth the torture of the journey itself._

_“Rain,” the word falls off Brosca’s tongue like a prayer. She examines her hands, watching as the droplets fall from her fingertips. “And this,” she squints. “Does this happen every day?”_

_“When it is the rainy season, yes.” Morrigan can’t keep the irritation from her voice, nor can she seem to stop the blush that creeps over her cheeks as Brosca skips over towards her._

_“Tell me more about the rainy season,” she chirps, the bun atop her head drooping and threatening to unravel under the water’s weight. When she stammers, attempting to pass the duty onto Alistair, Brosca shakes her head, setting free the loose, unruly ringlets and sending them bouncing around her face. “No, I wanna hear it from you.”_

It had been then, somewhere between her old life in the Wilds and this strange new journey, that Morrigan had felt it. Though it had been small, she hadn’t been able to ignore it. The unfamiliar urge to protect something other than herself. To foster that bright-eyed smile in the hopes that she might one day see it again, to soak in the stare of adoration before undoing it completely.

 

The rain shows no signs of letting up as Morrigan moves from the small writing desk to the doorway. _Are you dancing in the rain now?_ Her fingers toy with the pendant hanging from her neck. _Or have I crushed that light in you as well?_  

 

It had rained that day too, hadn’t it? The roads to Redcliffe muddy and lined with corpses. She hadn’t danced then either, her eyes ringed with bags and her hands shaking from the sight of it all. Morrigan doesn’t remember much from that night. Or rather, she chooses to forget. But the sound of thunder echoing off the castle walls, Lux’s soft face illuminated by lightning. She found that even she, no matter how stubbornly she persisted, had been able to forget that sight. She had never felt so low, quite so vile as she did while describing the ritual in painstaking detail. Her words had been cold, clinical as she made no attempt to soften the blow.

 

_“I thought you loved me.”_

 

She had thought her childish. Too blinded by convention to understand that everything she had done that night had been out of love. Or perhaps that too had been a means of self-preservation. An easy way for her to blind herself to the betrayal sending tears into her lover’s eyes, her small body shaking as she had struggled to remain standing tall. But Morrigan recognized the hurt in her eyes all the same, the same hurt that had crossed her face the moment they set foot in Orzammar. The same distant look that had refused to leave until they had returned to the surface.

 

Morrigan steps out into the rain, her stare cast accusingly at the dark sky overhead.

 

_“Does it do this every day?” Lux, her face contorted in a wince as the rain turns to hail. “Is it supposed to hurt?”_

It wasn’t love, was it? For even someone like Morrigan knew that love was not supposed to hurt quite like this. The raindrops slide down her face, blurring her vision and leaving the taste of salt on her lips. She had never thought she could hate the rain quite so much, for it had once given her everything she had ever loved.

 

She closes her eyes, allowing the tears to slip away.


	3. Just Like Art

Brosca, Morrigan has come to learn, is an early riser; and she can practically visualize the other woman’s routine even from the secure cocoon of her tent. Brosca rises with the sun, emerging from her tent just loudly enough to alert the camp to her presence. She spends the first hour of her day doing a complex set of stretches, a repetitive set of poses that send Morrigan’s own muscles spasming in response. On the rare occasion that Morrigan leaves her tent in time, she catches Brosca brushing out her hair, coiling it into the large bun that sits top her head and preparing herself for the final piece of her transformation.

 

This morning is no exception, and Morrigan steps outside just as Brosca is setting up her station. Though it had been a shock at first, she has come to expect the other woman’s presence so early in the morning. When she had established the distance between herself and the rest of the Warden’s party, she had expected to be given space. To be left alone and consulted only when necessary. But on the first night of their travels, parked somewhere between Lothering and Lake Calenhad, Brosca had set up camp closely enough for Morrigan to hear her soft snoring once their fires had been extinguished. And every night since then, her tent had inched closer and closer until there was no use protesting the not-so-unwelcome invasion on her privacy.

 

She pulls her cloak around her tightly, suppressing a shiver from the early morning chill. Brosca sits by the fire, bun already askew and her hound slobbering at her feet. “Morning!” She chirps, her eyes sparkling in the early morning sunlight.

 

Morrigan offers a cautious greeting, sitting across the fire and going through the motions of preparing her pack for the day. While she does so, she observes Brosca (as she is prone to doing) from the corner of her eye as she rings her eyes with kohl. Flemeth had never permitted makeup, and, living there alone in the Wilds, Morrigan had never known any need for it. Very rarely did she come across the painted faces of noblewomen, the sight of delicately painted lips and rouged cheeks as rare as a glittering mirror, recovered and then smashed upon the ground.

 

But Brosca wears this rarity like an extension of her armor, applying it daily as she would her boots.

 

“That doesn’t tire you?”

 

The question leaves Morrigan’s mouth before she can think to stop it, her face heating as Brosca’s eyes flick up from the mirror in her hand. Before she can tell her to forget it, that she is only thinking aloud during their one moment of peace for the day, Brosca nods, smiling softly. “A little bit, but,” she shrugs. “I’ve been doing it so long, I’m almost afraid of going without.”

 

“I’ve never,” she wrings her hands. “Flemeth never permitted such things, I,” Morrigan doesn’t know why she finds herself so flustered. Had it been anyone else, she would’ve called the notion frivolous. However, she finds herself unable to do so. Perhaps it was the simple fact that Brosca had been the only welcoming presence since leaving the Wilds, perhaps it was the same reason her tongue tied whenever she attempted idle chitchat with the warden.

 

“D’you want me to put some on for you?”

 

Morrigan remembers the jeweled mirror, how beautifully it had sparkled in the sunlight. How beautiful the woman it belonged to had looked through the window of her carriage. Wordlessly, she nods, wondering for a moment if she too might appear so beautiful.

 

Brosca plants herself in front of her, tools in hand and a comically-focused look on her face. “I usually just do a little bit,” she says, lifting the kohl pencil and placing one hand delicately on the side of Morrigan’s face. “Plus,” she smiles sheepishly. “You’re so beautiful, I wouldn’t want to cover anything up.”

 

The words send her blood singing hotly in her veins, and Morrigan shuts her eyes in an attempt to shield herself from Brosca’s tender gaze. The tip of the kohl is smooth against her eyelid, Brosca’s motions slow and feather-light. “Let me know if it’s uncomfortable,” she says softly. “I know it can feel strange when you aren’t used to it.”

 

“Flemeth,” Morrigan says slowly, her body rigid at the thought of her mother. “She found such things so unnecessary, so frivolous.” Her voice shakes, her mind flooded with shattered glass. “Beauty should be secondary to power, and if you are powerful, you’ve no need to be beautiful.” She opens her eyes at Brosca’s command and finds the other woman smiling sympathetically. For a moment Morrigan feels naked, every bit the frightened girl cowering away from her mother’s rage. “What,” suddenly she must know. “What of your mother?”

 

The question causes Brosca’s eyes to flash, her gaze dulling before she blinks herself back to the conversation. “My mother,” she says slowly, tucking the kohl into her pack and pulling out a pot of rose-scented pigment. “The only kindness my mother has ever shown me is not letting me starve to death as an infant.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “A strange bit of mercy, I suppose.”

 

Morrigan recalls the conversation outside of Lothering. She had thought it odd, that a senior warden such as Alistair would put all the decision-making in the hands of his subordinate. But she had thought it odder when Brosca had almost flat-out refused to return to Orzammar. _But this_ , she thinks as the other woman’s jaw sets tightly. _This may be the reason why._

 

“Sorry,” Brosca looks flustered, a flush creeping across her face. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Family is,” she chuckles. “It’s not the most cut and dry thing for me. But that’s enough brooding for one morning!” In a single splinter of a second, she slips back into the chipper persona that Morrigan had come to expect. “I’m just going to put a little bit of this on your cheekbones, to really make them pop. Although,” she frowns slightly. “You already have such high cheekbones. I’m quite jealous really, mine are so round and just,” she presses her hands to her face. “Doughy.”

 

Morrigan can’t help but giggle as Brosca kneads at her own cheeks, the sound surprising them both. Brosca flashes her a grin, pulling out a small brush and another dark, floral cosmetic from her pack. “One last thing,” she mumbles, gently applying the pigment to her lips. The world stands still around her, and Morrigan finds that she cannot focus on Flemeth, on the Blight, or even the ache in her back caused by the rock under her bedroll. In that moment, there is nothing left but her and Brosca, a shared serenity that she is all but desperate to hold on to.

 

“Morrigan?”

 

But alas, like all things, it ends. And Morrigan forces herself back into the present. Brosca stands up straight, the mirror clutched in her hands. “Well,” she says as she holds it up. “What do you think?”

 

She does not recognize the face that stares back. Though Brosca had kept her promise and applied only subtle changes, in Morrigan’s eyes they are earth-shattering. “I,” she glances up at Brosca’s expectant face and then back to her reflection. “How did you do it? I,” though she sits in her drab cloak, one pulled from the remnants of one of Flemeth’s old lives, Morrigan feels as brilliant as that gemmed mirror. As lovely as the woman who had held it.

 

“Oh, thank the ancestors,” Brosca sighs, sinking down next to her. “I was worried you didn’t like it. I tried to do it as lightly as I could with these,” she holds up her hands. “Big, old warrior hands.” She glances over her shoulder, the sound of their companions shuffling to life grabbing her attention. “Oh,” she sighs and Morrigan thinks she almost sounds disappointed as she sets the mirror down in Morrigan’s lap. “I should probably go let them know the plan for the day. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

 

“Brosca,” she calls as she stands, preparing to trot over to Alistair’s place across the camp. Morrigan shrinks slightly when she turns back, her eyebrows raised. “Do you,” she feels quite bashful, but she manages to push through her embarrassment if only for a moment. “Might you teach me how you did all this? Perhaps tomorrow morning.”

 

For a moment she fears that Brosca will deny her, but the other woman bobs her head, clapping delightedly. “It’s a date!” She chirps, flashing her another grin before bounding off towards the others.

 

Morrigan stares into her reflection, still marveling at how a small amount of pigment could make such a monumental difference. The glass glints in the sunlight, and brightly, Morrigan glitters back.

 

 


	4. Something Worth Fighting For

Kieran has his mother’s unruly hair, her soft features and earth-toned skin, and Morrigan’s ochre eyes. She watches his eyelids droop, his head bobbing as he tries and fails to fight the call of an afternoon’s nap. Though within him slumbered the soul of an Old God, there was no denying that the boy was still a babe; and Morrigan can’t help but chuckle as she coaxes him to down onto the pillows.

 

 _She would’ve loved him dearly_ , she thinks, her heart fluttering at the sound of the boy’s contented and sleepy sigh.

 

Morrigan has never wanted to protect something quite so much and try as she might to chalk that up to Kieran’s destiny, she knows that there are deeper-rooted reasons. She had never imagined herself as a nurturer. Had never thought that she might usurp the coveted role of caregiver, shrouded in maternal instinct. Her own experience with motherhood had been limited to Flemeth and –

 

_The Diamond Quarter is a far-cry from the despair and rot of Dust Town. Though Morrigan is glad to be out of the slums, she finds little relief in the sight of Lux’s fists quaking at her sides. In front of her stands a redheaded woman, and though her face bears the same brand of the casteless, there is a healthy glow about her that Morrigan had not seen past the heavy doors of the nobles’ quarter._

_“Rica,” Lux’s smile is tight. “It’s so good to see you.”_

_“Yes,” the smile she receives in return is equally strained. “You’re looking well. I suppose the surface air has been good to you.”_

_Buttons whines at her side, nudging his wet nose against her hand. Morrigan looks down to find the hound staring up at her, head cocked to the side as he continues to whimper. She scratches his ears absently, feeling a similar look of concern and confusion pull her own features into a frown. She had never known the Warden to have any need to fake niceties. She had watched her bow her head and curtsey with the utmost sincerity to a tree only a few short weeks ago._

_“Bhelen has given us a place in the Royal Palace. My son, Endrin, myself, and,” Rica’s face softens. “Well, I would hope that you’d come see us, at least.”_

_“Is she well?”_

_Rica reaches out, threading her fingers through Lux’s and smiling softly. Morrigan detects a trace of pity in her stare and can only assume who they might be talking about. “Come,” she says finally. “Let me introduce you to Vartag.”_

She brushes the hair from Kieran’s eyes, chest flooding with affection as he coos and nuzzles deeper into her touch. A spark of guilt seizes her, as it tended to do in quiet, domestic moments such as these. Guilt at snatching away a piece of hope, hiding it far away from her Warden’s desperate grasp.

 

She hadn’t lied, hadn’t sugarcoated the truth. They had gone into it knowing that they were never to meet again, that theirs were two fates destined to never intersect. But with each passing month, as her belly had grown larger, and her thoughts sentimental; Morrigan had wondered if she was truly the heartless witch that Alistair had always accused her of being. But how heartless could she be? She knew the organ remained in her chest. She could feel it splinter and ache, weeping at the faintest memories of the days before the night of the ritual. Her heart had been there in the heavy aftermath, coaxing her to wrap herself protectively around her Warden long after Lux’s muffled sobs had turned into a fitful sleep. And it had always been present on the road, beating wildly in her ears with each passing day. Searching for any opportunity to fight for the one thing she had truly ever wanted.

 

_“I don’t want to go in there.”_

_They stand outside of the palace doors. Rica had gone ahead, giving Lux time to prepare herself while she went to fetch Bhelen’s right hand. But preparations, it seemed, had only devolved into nervous convulsions as the Warden stood dry-heaving on the palace steps. Morrigan has never seen her like this. Their other exploits had always been foolhardy, taken head-on without any semblance of common sense. And while she had often reminded their leader of the potential benefits of a level-head, she had never expected hesitation to manifest out of fear._

_Alistair stands by Lux’s side, cooing awkward reassurances as he pats her back. Morrigan watches the display, her chest tight and her mood getting worse by the minute. “There, there,” he says. “I’m sure this’ll be easy. After settling a centuries’ long feud between werewolves and elves, what’s a little dispute over the crown?”_

_“You do it.” Lux’s eyes are wild. “You go talk to them. I don’t want this, I left with Duncan for a reason. Because I didn’t want to come back here. I,” she stops suddenly, flinching as Morrigan appears at Alistair’s side._

_“Mind the hound,” Morrigan says with a glare, nudging him out of the way. He grumbles, but listens, and Morrigan waits until he is out of earshot before softening her tone. “Alistair is a fool,” she says gently, “to think a mere bit of politics might frighten you so.” In a rare show of public affection, she places her hand on the side of her face, drawing her thumb along the apple of her cheek._

_“It’s this place, Morrigan.” Her lip trembles. “They all look at me like they_ know _. It’s different from being a Brand. With Rica in the palace and_ her _there – you see the way their eyes are. They know because we matter now. It’s not like being faceless. Scandal matters here.”_

_Morrigan shushes her gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “They know_ nothing _,” she replies. “And anyone foolish enough to make any assumptions based on what they think they might know,” she smiles, “shall taste the wrong end of my staff before they can make anymore guesses.”_

She had fought for something bigger than herself then. Had followed her heart despite the cold, detached voice in her head telling her that there was nothing to be gained. Nothing to be tucked away for future exploitation. No, she had never been raised to protect anyone but herself. But there, on the desolate roads of Blight-ravaged Ferelden, she had found a life far more precious than her own. And she would continue to protect her, even if it proved fatal.

**Author's Note:**

> I love my goth gf and absolutely needed to write a fic about her getting to be soft and vulnerable with someone she loves. Morrigan's Chasind features won't be whitewashed for the sake of an aesthetic, and her origins are going to make a little more sense for someone raised in her particular situation (sort of like a character fix-it, so be ready). Hope y'all enjoy!


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